


The Day Breaks Not

by Cara_Loup



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 14:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cara_Loup/pseuds/Cara_Loup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Han has resumed his smuggler’s life, and when Luke shows up to resolve an old misunderstanding, there’s a storm brewing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day Breaks Not

They hadn’t met since Han had gone back to his old ways, months ago.

Luke had thought himself prepared for the meeting, but the first step he took into the hangar defused that comfortable delusion. The sight of the Millennium Falcon alone ― spacefaring junk-heap of lopsided charm ― brought a twinge of convoluted sentiments, stuck somewhere between regret, disbelief and unwarranted elation. And of course it triggered a highly condensed swell of reminiscence. First brush with adventure, with the wild thrill and glory of going into hyper – the wash of white starlight across the viewport the very epitome of change, engulfing his younger self. Luke caught himself smiling incredulously. But the smile faltered in another second when the ship’s pilot appeared on the scene.

In the company of a spidery-limbed droid, Han walked around the Falcon. Dressed in his private fantasy of a pirate’s uniform, his stride slow and confident. Entirely, disturbingly unchanged.

Luke took an involuntary step backward, although Han was unlikely to notice him amidst the disorganized activities of ships’ crews hauling cargo or performing maintenance on parked crafts. Passing several tools to the maintenance droid, Han scaled an access ladder and knelt atop the Falcon.

Another tableau arranged itself to entice Luke’s recollections. Early on, when Han had been constantly on the brink of leaving the Rebellion, he’d spent every free minute repairing his ship or experimenting with modifications of her hybrid systems. And Luke could see himself walking across the hangar, calling up to his unfathomable new friend―

_Hey, what about a break?_

It wouldn’t be quite so easy now.

Honoring his taste for clean breaks, Han had resigned his commission, collected accumulated pay for achievements and services to the Alliance and left, Chewbacca at his shoulder in brooding acknowledgment of older loyalties. To resume... his old ways.

A phrase his friends used for something vaguely understood at best. Among all of Han’s companions, Lando was the only one familiar with the lifestyle ― drab routine and fever-pitch risk blending in contraband activities ― and Lando had been quite unable to explain the allure of it.

Luke wasn’t sure he saw the point, or the difference it made to Han who considered himself an outsider among the Rebels as much as he did among the privateers and the smugglers. Nonetheless he’d made a choice that cut him loose from ties forged in the fickle heat of war.

Only for a limited span of time, the war against the Empire had spelled simplicity. Individualities became pieces of the one giant jigsaw puzzle, falling into place, then falling apart again under the very different pressure of shaping tight Rebel bands into administrative units of the newly founded state. And then, expectable for everyone who cared to speculate, Han’s personality had revealed ragged edges that refused to be smoothed out and fitted in with the new patterns. He’d struggled to compromise as long as his temper would allow, then acknowledged that he could only bend so far.

With a small pang, Luke recalled a heated debate ― as close to an open fight as they’d ever come ― that wore on through a Corellian summer night. By the time dawn crept up on them, angry disappointment had sabotaged his reasonable arguments, faltering before Han’s resolve. In Han’s eyes, Luke had found the kind of raw sentiment rationality couldn’t hope to reach. Desire to meet every day head on, to test his limits against the contingencies of survival. And because Han needed freedom like the air he breathed, Luke had stopped arguing.

Life was all about learning how to let go anyway ― but the lesson already absorbed offered no comfort. Months after Han had departed from Corellia, the loss still lived inside him like a shadow to every thought. A constant, small hurt beating away at the back of his mind, every hour of the day ―

For a few moments more, Luke watched from the back of the hangar, watched Han rerout the Falcon’s outer wiring, hands following the patterns of thoughtless, fond routine. Precision tools clipped to his waistcoat’s pockets, dark hair growing shaggily down to the worn white collar of his shirt.

One by one, the small changes registered. Gone was the stiffness of spine and shoulders, drawn back in uneasy imitation of military discipline. Gone were the sharp lines haunting Han’s grin with self-conscious sarcasm. Days out in the sun had tanned his face and hands a smooth, light brown. Supple fingers threaded wires through a rusty conduit with affectionate delicacy.

Luke straightened. All those arbitrary details aligned with poignant memories and dived under, brushing a tight knot of anguish somewhere below his breastbone. All those months that he’d lived with an incurable rupture ― only to find Han secure and comfortable where he belonged... It sharpened Luke’s sense of solitude, setting him on edge with a bitterness that had never seemed so out of place.

Luke glanced out the hangar’s portals to search the jaded nightskies for instruction. Not quite morning yet, although a chilly breeze slid inside with the clean scents of dawn. He’d been up for more than a standard cycle, but there was no fatigue. His senses still lingered in a different time zone and called daybreak bright noon. Briefly, he wondered about Han’s burst of activity at such an early hour, then he crossed the hangar. It was time.

"I’m looking for a transport," he said, "a fast, reliable ship with maximum sensor capacity."

Han, who’d been climbing down the rungs, stopped at the sound of his voice, stiffened fractionally before he continued downward, smooth motions instantly brisk with control. He wiped his hands on a rag and turned slowly.

"And where would you be going?" he asked, his tone as distant as the hazel eyes that narrowed defensively.

"The Mandalore system."

"Mandalore?" Han chewed on the name. "Why not Imperial Center itself?"

"What about it?"

"It’s gonna cost you." Han leaned back against the Falcon’s hull, buying himself time for the uptake by playing along.

"How much?" Luke asked.

"Thirty thousand. All in advance."

A fantastic sum, even for the hazards involved. Luke bridled another stab of reminiscence and shrugged. "Fine."

"Hey ― wait a second. I’m not saying I want the job!" Floundering between competing realities, Han swept his fingers through overlong hair.

"But your ship’s available?"

From under the Falcon, the maintenance droid chittered to itself, small sounds filling the silence. A dark glance grazed Luke and drifted on to locate a coincidental spot in the middle distance.

"Luke―" Han’s tone switched back to snappish as he caught himself. "Is this some kinda crack? What are you up to, huh?"

The moment escaped, and there came a small sting of disappointment.  
"I need a ship to take me to Mandalore," Luke repeated, projecting the steely patience he used to keep his own mind on course.

Han gestured expansively, indicating the variety of crafts crowding the hangar. "Take your pick. There’s guys around who’d make you a better deal."

"I need a pilot I can trust," Luke specified.

"Didn’t they warn you not to trust anybody? We’re not the same side of the law anymore."

An unfamiliar bleakness unbalanced Han’s sarcasm and halted Luke’s retort, replacing it with questions. He still studied the shuttered expression when a rumble from the Falcon turned both their heads.

Chewbacca’s bulk of muscle and fur filled the open hatch for a second of frozen surprise, then the Wookiee bounded down the ramp to seize Luke’s shoulders and ruffle his hair, while he laughed, shaken, because the exuberant welcome felt like something from a dream his waking mind never recalled. The Wookiee’s show of affection was accompanied by a series of quizzical growls.

"He wants to hire a ship, Chewie," Han supplied tiredly. "To Mandalore... and I was just saying―"

The furry head snapped sideways for a snarl that exposed the Wookiee’s fangs.

Han stepped back from his copilot’s outburst. "Cool it, pal ― I’m thinkin’ about it..."

Releasing Luke, Chewbacca leaned over Han, abruptly silent, a live blockade of reproach and protest thrust into the way of a futile argument.

Han relented with a disgruntled shrug. "I suppose we could use the money. But don’t come complainin’ to me when things get rough." Edgy strides took him up the ramp. Half-turning at the top, Han added, "We can get her ready for takeoff in an hour."

Chewbacca’s stare followed him in a silent expression of concern.

"It’s okay," Luke said quietly. "Give it time."

 

A fringe of dawn spread on the horizon, silky white and pale gold reflected by a sea of clouds as the Falcon climbed towards the stratosphere, a curve of blue air sheltering the small planet. Luke watched through the porthole. The play of atmosphere-blurred light would soon be replaced by the midnight silver of deep space. The Falcon ploughed layers of sky, tore through dim blue and bloated purple with shudders of speed.

Setting his light-travel pack down, Luke looked around the freighter’s passenger lounge. Countless memories were waiting to spring their trap: journeys made and dangers shared, strung together by an undertow of constant, unfulfilled expectation, echoed by the ship’s wistful hum. His eyes found the door to Han’s cabin, a dark rectangle down the corridor, and he turned brusquely, making his way to the cockpit.

Some of Han’s tension had eased off together with planetary gravity. "We’ll make the jump in a couple minutes," he announced. "You can use the spare bunk in the lounge if you want. It’s gonna be a long trip."

Unresponsive to the implicit dismissal, Luke settled in the passenger seat. Darkness opened up before them, poured itself over the segmented viewport, gentle and insistent as the planet’s yellow primary spiraled out of view. He saw Han’s shoulders rise and sink with a calming breath, articulating a private welcome of the vast quiet outside.

Planet-dwellers considered spacers a restless sort, but one look at Han disproved the notion. Centered at the core of incredible speed, poised between past and future, Han was as calm as he’d ever be.

Without thought, he let his hands fly across the controls, and Luke watched with a phantom sensation of warmth and pressure on his skin that forced his own hands into fists as he stopped himself from reaching out.

At Han’s command, Chewbacca flipped a few switches. A rainbow flicker of indicator lights danced across the control board, then Han pulled the lever towards himself. Time and space shimmered into a brilliant distortion wave that sucked the freighter towards funneling starlines. After a fractional burst of intense white light, the Falcon slid into hyperspace.

"Right..." Han leaned back in his flight chair. "Mandalore’s seven standard days away. Might get pretty boring for you. Me ‘n Chewie got plenty of minor repairs to work on."

"I’ve got a stack of datatapes I’ll need to study," Luke returned.

"Tricky job coming up, huh?" Han’s idle tone did not call for explanations. He stretched his legs and sighed comfortably. "So... how’s everybody?"

"Okay, and busy. Leia’s got her hands full reorganizing the senate. They’ve promoted Wedge, put him in charge of the entire Corellian fleet. And Lando ― he’s having another go at tibanna gas mining." Luke paused. "But that isn’t news to you, is it?"

"No," Han said shortly. "We’ve been in touch."

Luke waited, anticipating the next question ― but when it came, after missing a beat, it startled him all the same.

"Did _he_ tell you where to look for me?"

As if Han considered himself deleted from Luke’s life with the day he’d left.

"He didn’t need to," Luke answered, forcing the protest from his voice. "And Intelligence keeps an eye on all the retired military anyway. That’s standard procedure."

Han snorted. "Retired military. Y’hear that, Chewie?"

In response, the Wookiee made a point of staring out through the viewport, blatantly disinterested, and for a while they all sat in silence, absorbing the hypnotic meld of light and shadows.

"So you’ve been to Bespin," Han finally said over his shoulder, "to look him up?"

"A few weeks ago," Luke confirmed, after the moment it took to curb an immediate flash of tension.

The coincidental visit had become a turning point of sorts. And some of the things Lando had told him kept smoldering away at the back of his mind, to raise one question after the other.

Han turned sideways to meet Luke’s eyes for the first time since he’d boarded the Falcon.

"Did you talk to him?" Brooding gaze and guarded tone added their own meaning to the strange question.

"I did," Luke said gently. "Although... Lando didn’t want to talk at first. And I doubt he told me all."

"That’s a friend," Han snapped. His eyes wandered, fractionally revealing secrets he probably thought safe behind the smoke-screen of sarcasm. "Whatever Lando let you believe he knows ― hey, _he_ doesn’t have a first idea about me!"

The sharp protest caused another wanton flicker of nerves at the wrong time. Han could not be pressed for answers, if there were any. Luke relaxed forcibly. "That’s what he suspects himself."

"Good." Han levered from his seat and nodded at Chewbacca. "I’m going to run diagnostics on the motivator. You keep her steady, okay?"

The next instant, his steps sent cold, metallic echoes through the Falcon’s corridor.

 

Luke settled in with his own agenda, research tapes providing reliable diversion for empty hours. Until the voice of reason had lulled itself and recollection won another round, sending him back where sweet, sharp gases washed around the dizzy heights of architectural fantasy.

His second visit to Bespin and Cloud City had been a paler echo of the first, haunted recognition stirring with every step. But the memories he paced off were what he’d prepared to handle, and no unexpected sentiment flawed his rendezvous with the past. Until they’d started talking about Han.

Lando had waved him out onto the balcony, high in the administrative tower. Discomfort and sympathy mixed and faltered in his eyes. "You know," he said, "I think Han... his leaving at that point had a lot to do with you."

Stunned silent, Luke had turned away to study the cold blues and fuzzy whites of Bespin’s midday sky, but Lando’s words kept repeating themselves like something he’d always anticipated at the back of his mind, where discarded hopes and fears lived too close together.

"With me? Why?" he’d finally asked.

He’d given Han no reason at all. He’d never overstepped the invisible line that defined their present friendship, never mind the past, and confusion gained on him as he wondered what Han guessed, believed, or thought he knew. There had to be another reason ―

"Why?" he repeated.

Lando leaned against the balustrade, blue cloak caught in the wind, rippling like an angry flash of summer.

"Ain’t for me to say," he replied curtly, one hand coming up to rub the bridge of his nose.

"I miss him," Luke said softly, almost relieved to drag up a simple truth from prolific tangles of unclear sentiments.

"Yeah." Lando grimaced. "Sure sounds crazy, ‘cause he’s more trouble than he’s worth ― but I miss him too."

Luke sat up to focus on the datascreen before him. Reiterating the entire conversation with Lando one more time could only multiply the riddles, undermining the scant assumptions he’d totally relied on... like, time couldn’t be turned back. For all the inevitable regrets, comfort resided in the knowledge that an iron chain of cause and effect held the disparate fragments of life together.

On the screen lingered the report about Mandalore’s role in the Clone Wars, its sumptuous silver lettering on shady purple pitted against fragmentary contents, its paragraphs often closing with variants of ‘exact data unavailable’. He’d read the last paragraph twice already, before reminiscence broke his concentration.

The Falcon was quiet. The scraping of tools on metallic surfaces and the sputtering of the plasma torch had stopped awhile ago, Luke realized as he listened into the engines’ whispers. When he looked up, Han stood in the lounge’s doorway.

"Think you could gimme a hand for a minute? Chewie’s in the cockpit checking readouts."

Luke shrugged and got up.

Long, slow shudders of energy tingled along his fingertips as he slid them down the seam in the bulkhead and pried his side of the cover plate loose. Han toggled a switch and reached inside to disconnect several conduits.

"Okay... now hold these cables in place ― just so I can get a reading."

Sparks sizzled as wires connected, and a small lamp blinked its drowsy red. Luke remembered the many emergency repairs performed on the edge of disaster, and the fever brightness that beating the odds brought to Han’s eyes.

"So ― what’s that job you’re on?" Han asked, slowly sweeping the scanner across exposed power lines. "I’d thought Mandalore was uninhabitable these days."

"It is ― on the surface." Luke paused.

"Classified information?"

He shook his head. "There’s not much we know about it. Nothing but scattered hints... and they point to a penal colony for political prisoners, somewhere underground."

"Don’t tell me you’re planning to arrange a jailbreak all by yourself." Han shot him a sharp glance. "We ended up with a Death Star tailing us, last time. In case you’d forgotten."

"It won’t get that spectacular. I volunteered as a scout, that’s all."

"Sounds bad enough." Something akin to amusement eased Han’s tone, and when his head lifted, his sullen reserve was on temporary retreat. "I don’t get it, Luke. Don’t suppose I ever will."

"What?"

"You. It’s not like you’ve got anything left to prove to anybody. Including yourself."

"You’re the one to talk."

"Right." Han grinned and switched off the scanner. "Okay, we’re done. Thanks."

One hand came up to rest on Luke’s shoulder, following dated habits of affection, giving him pause ― to feel the very particular, breathless amazement interred a long time ago.

"I think we should talk," Luke said quietly.

"Maybe," Han conceded and let his hand drop, defenses drawing up with entrenched reflex. "Sometime."

It was as close to a promise as he’d ever get from Han. Luke accepted with a nod and turned back into the lounge.

Whatever Han considered private was sealed off beyond deliverance, clamped down on with all of the man’s obstinacy.

Luke glanced at the scrap of indefinite night framed by the porthole, but his mind replaced it with Bespin’s blue skies. Lando had paced the wind-washed balcony as he dug for words to fence in the vagaries of change.

"It’s not like I noticed anything peculiar the moment Han suddenly showed up with Leia," he’d said. "On the run, looking for quick repairs ― well, what’s new. And we hadn’t met in ages. Only when I went to see him in the holding cell..."

Even as he broke off, Lando’s brusque tone exposed what Luke took to be an irredeemable residue of guilt. Turning Han over to the bounty hunter, Lando had enlisted as unwitting agent in Imperial machinations.

"I tried to explain, you know." Lando smoothed his moustache absently, then looked up, straight into Luke’s eyes. "Told Han it was you they were after, not him, or Leia. When he said your name ― and next he was swinging at me, throwing himself off balance ― I guess that’s when I knew he’d changed."

Regret encroached on Luke’s thoughts as the past stirred awake and threatened to flood him with a very juvenile confusion. "I didn’t really expect Han to join us," he said almost before he knew, the sense of loss too raw and immediate. "When we left Hoth, I thought maybe we’d seen the last of him."

"Yeah?" Lando had wrested a slow grin from his uncharacteristic pensiveness. "That’s the way to get a hold over someone like Han, I guess. Stand back ‘n let him tie himself down."

But that particular trick came with its own expiry date, it seemed.

Luke returned to the lounge’s passenger couch. Boarding the Falcon, he’d crossed the line into many pasts, small incidents consorting with the pitched and decisive. Jumbled like the squares on the chequered game table, Luke thought, with a dry touch of humor. Random moves of memory skipping the linear sequence of time. And the ship offered sanctuary to immaterial moments scattered in history’s wake.

Sanctuary. It made him think of Hoth, where the Falcon’s air condition and warmth had easily outrivaled every other spot in a Rebel base chewed from the snow-pack, frozen breath glittering on the walls of the pilots’ dorms. And every night there would be a crowd sharing body heat and gossip and rations of watery ale in the Falcon’s lounge, while Han presided with his feet propped on the game table.

Luke eased himself back on the couch. His eyes traveled the short distance down the corridor, to the narrow slide-door of Han’s cabin. His mind traveled one particular path memory had carved across the stretch of time. One particular night.

The memory materialized, bright and clear, the sequence of events like a chain reaction ― but at the time, his own feelings had never gained the level of consciousness. Living in permanent expectation of something entirely unexpectable, he’d drawn out those hours aboard the Falcon, with Han, and never knew what he was waiting for.

Until one night he’d delayed his return to the dorm and subzero temperatures longer than usual, flaunting one of the uncounted, minor regulations that structured their daily boredom, implicitly sure of Han’s tacit approval. Scoffing at regulations was Han’s way of reminding everybody that his allegiance to the Rebels was at once temporary and coincidental. Like so many nights before, Luke had stayed when the rest of the pilots filed out, comfortable in the stale warmth of recycled air, his mind adrift on the levity of their conversation.

When it became later than their usual late, they’d retired to Han’s cabin where they slouched on the bunk and shared a jealously guarded reserve of Corellian brandy. It was definitely the kind of distinction Luke didn’t feel he’d earned. The brandy burned in his throat, spilled dark warmth into his stomach and radiated a gentle glow through his foggy thoughts. Han stretched out next to him, lean and long and relaxed, amusement hovering at the back of his gaze when Luke finally, grudgingly, called it time for bed.

"Bed? What’s wrong with this one?" Han had asked, the mock-innocence one of his less successful poses.

Startled, Luke felt his pulse leap, and his gaze searched around the cabin as if he’d been transported to an entirely alien setting in the blink of an eye.

"There’ll be a morning call," he said, slightly dazed. "Miss that, and you pay for it by scraping the ice off the blast portals, after patrols."

"Might be worth it." Han held out the near-empty bottle. A small, honey-colored puddle sloshed lazily at the bottom. "Wanna finish?"

The unspoken suggestion in Han’s tone caused a shift of reality and brought a dizzy flutter awake in Luke’s stomach as Han leaned closer. He set the bottle-neck against his lips mechanically. Lazy fire crawled down his throat, soothing nerves that were suddenly strung tight. And the next thing he knew he was tasting the same brandy taste on Han’s mouth, moving against his own. His eyes closed automatically and his mind shut down with the same immediate efficiency, leaving room only for disconnected perceptions.

A fall of thick hair tickling his forehead as Han bent over him. The slow movement of a palm traveling up his side. The strange sensation of inhaling Han’s breath, spreading through him with the brightest confusion. By the time all those details added up to the fact that Han was kissing him and he was kissing back, a breathless match for Han’s fervor, Luke was beyond hesitation, amazement, and reason already. And definitely too excited to stop.

Acknowledged but untouched, the memory had hibernated somewhere deep and safe. Luke opened his eyes to the deserted lounge, the resonance of small electric discharges dancing in the pit of his stomach.

Which was probably why he’d come here. To retrieve the immediacy of unknown sensations. To connect to his younger self, starved for sensation and experience ― and totally blind to what he wanted desperately.

All the times he’d watched Han in thoughtless fascination... Luke shifted on the couch and felt a smile tug his mouth. Perhaps there wasn’t any way to expect the impossible, or perhaps he’d simply been too young to wonder. It had taken Han’s persuasive touch to draw awareness to the surface of skin and mind, and then he’d been overwhelmed by the difference a single night could make.

One night only, though at the time he’d hoped for more.

They’d moved into a close embrace with thoughtless hunger for each other, and yet nothing had seemed enough. Han’s eyes clouded as his mouth and hands insisted, inspiring an ardent dialogue of challenge and demand. Faster breaths, pressing into each other, fumbling with buttons and clasps in between, then again losing track of the very practical notion to get undressed. The texture of skin and muscle sliding under his fingers, the dry, hot taste in his mouth. Fragmented thoughts of the frozen white plains outside that augmented the pleasure and the warmth. Clinging to Han’s mouth, while the cross-currents of sensation fused and built to overload, trapped in dazzled excitement by the hands that explored him, moved on him, coaxed him into abrupt climax.

He’d come awake with a start, sometime later ― to the unfamiliar, heavy darkness of Han’s cabin and the pressure of a warm body cradling him. He hadn’t wanted to leave.

"It’s not morning yet, is it?" he whispered.

"No," Han murmured, through the haze of sleep. "The day breaks not―"

The words were like a lead to very private thoughts, but when he’d asked, Han had only shifted him closer and said, "Just some sentimental old song... hell, but I’m tired."

The next day, chipping glistening braids of ice off the blast doors, Luke had hummed to himself, idly watching his breath curl up white in the crisp air while he wondered just when he’d fallen in love ― weeks, or months ago ― although it didn’t matter now.

The feeling lived in every molecule of his body; though vibrant in every thought like change itself, it was still easy on him. Because, in his careless arrogance, he thought he could afford to wait and rely on the universe to keep still with bated breath just like him.

The memory ended in a fast sequence of realities crashing in around him.

Staggering through a blizzard half-delirious, a dim week of submersion in the bacta tank, tailed by explosions of fire and ice when the Empire’s forces slashed through the deflector shield. In the middle of evacuation, the parting moment he’d shared with Han stood out for a total loss of words. And that fragile silence seemed the only item they’d salvaged from the wreckage of change when they met again.

Inevitably, silence turned out its own breed of questions, but Luke wasn’t sure he wanted them answered. When they met again, he’d lost all sense of balance in a universe where truth and appearance were at war. Every law of probability had collapsed on Bespin, and with it the farmboy’s romantic beliefs. He made himself suppose that Han half-remembered the night on Hoth amidst a random collection of inconsequential episodes. And even if there’d been more, it was by far too late to reclaim a chance they’d never really had.

To protect the memory from sordid realities, Luke buried it alive and intact and made the unquenchable rest work as part of their friendship which at least kept Han near. Secure in the patterns of compromise ― until Han’s older needs demanded their dues. Until Lando’s intimations turned his reasoning upside down.

Luke felt the solitude like a deepening frost. Exposed, the feelings he’d put on hold turned into embarrassment, outlived and immature ― because Han knew what he couldn’t possibly know. Because he’d let something slip that spoiled the semblance of acceptance. All this time, it had been nothing but a facade, and now Han could see right through it.

Assailed by another rush of rebellious sentiments, Luke reached for resolutions made at the outset of this journey. He’d come to persuade them both that he could live with the past, the loss, no reason to worry. To confront, with a delay of years, the finale to an exiled dream.

Every speech he’d prepared from a distance started with _I can handle it_. Now he wasn’t sure anymore. When he lay down on the spare bunk and listened into the ship’s whispers of power and speed, wishful thinking and reminiscence conspired, chasing electric anticipation through his nerves.

_What if―?_ the engines sang, imploring the future. Luke closed his eyes and refused to listen. Mind curled up firmly against the distant comfort of resolve, it still took him hours to fall asleep.

* * *

A strangely disconcerting smell stirred through his shallow dreams, and for a second Luke lay hesitantly awake, fumbling with the where, how and why. Then he identified the damnably familiar scents of breakfast, prepared by an antiquated food processor.

On the other side of the lounge, Han settled a tray on the game table. The processor he obviously hadn’t fixed in all this time still decorated the toast with burned edges and shrunk the eggs out of any natural proportion.

Joining Han, Luke programmed his breakfast with less bravado and, when it arrived, looked down at his plate with momentary abstraction. The sting of recognition had widened the gap of time to an incredible distance, neither Here nor There, lost somewhere between the past and an unthinkable future.

He wondered when they’d last been alone together. For a second, wanton recollection claimed they’d shared nothing else ― a sequence of deliberate silences ― and the next moment it seemed as if the pace of post-war events had swallowed privacy whole, and they were never alone with each other.

"Good morning," Han offered as an afterthought.

Luke gave up on his unreliable memory with a shrug. "Quite early for you," he suggested.

"I’m back on shorter sleeping cycles."

And on towards another round of absurdly stilted conversation.

Suddenly wearied, Luke gave up on another phantasm ― of right moments rising to the requirements ― but Han beat him to the blunt approach.

"Okay, let’s have it. What did Lando tell you?"

"I guess this is more about things he didn’t say."

"Straightforward as ever, huh?" Han growled. "Give me a question for a question anytime, Luke ― never an answer."

"How can I answer what you didn’t ask?" A sidelong glance showed him Han’s edgy reserve, and Luke dismissed his own query with a vague gesture. "Like I told you, Lando didn’t say much. Only that I was responsible for your change of plans."

"He did say that, huh?"

"But he wouldn’t tell me why. So... what did I do?"

As if he didn’t know the answer already. Luke steepled his fingers to lock down the sudden swell of temper. Something was slipping his control. And what if he was just as blind as he’d been on Hoth, what if those feelings resisted necessary compromise, as hopeless and incorrigble as ever―?

Han bounced from his seat and paced towards the food processor to slap the controls irascibly. Waiting for the machine to issue a drink, he shot Luke a glare over his shoulder, then shook his head sharply as if to cut off an unspoken rejoinder.

"What?" Luke repeated. "C’mon, say it. Did I ever try to tell you how to run your life? Did I push, did I impose myself, did I ask too much?"

And he held his breath, refusing to consider what irrational impulse suggested.

Han snorted. "I think we’re dealing with a major loss of reality here―" He interrupted himself at the processor’s chimed ‘ready’ signal. His mouth twisted into a taunting grin when he turned, cupping the mug in both hands. "No, you didn’t push. You never pushed. Happy?"

Unreasonable, to expect anything less than sarcasm and furious fencing from Han. What Luke hadn’t anticipated was the stir of anger in himself. So much to lose, after all this time of putting up with loss ― and Han was forcing him back to the cutting edge of desperation.

Resorting to the sensible arguments he’d compiled in advance, Luke moderated his tone with an effort. "Look, I realize times weren’t excactly easy for you ― they weren’t for any of us. As long as there’s a war to fight, you don’t worry about tomorrow. It takes time to readjust, I know that."

He recalled the aftermath of war, recalled watching Han and Leia fall in love and drift apart again, waiting, with hypnotized dread, for the moment Han acknowledged the lost cause ―

"I thought you’d made a decision when you stayed on," Luke continued. "You settled in for months, then suddenly you change your mind. And you expect me to make sense of it? I realize coordinating the fleet from some desk isn’t your idea of fun. Military decorum makes you jumpy. But you put up with it. What happened? Or did you just get bored?" The blood had drained from his hands when Luke pressed his fingertips together. He looked up.

"Nothing happened." Tense like a coiled spring, Han had resorted to dark stares. A boulder of silence, daring the universe to wrench a scrap of compromise or concession from him. "Got tired of hanging around, waiting," he added snappishly and set the mug down a little too hard. Some of the hot liquid spilled over his fingers. "Damn," he muttered.

"Waiting for what?" Luke asked, his tongue faster than the mind that was still caught up in a self-made web of impossibilities. Impossible to let himself believe ―

And Han exploded. "What’s this supposed to be? The bloody Imperial Inquisition? Don’t you think it’s a little late to come here asking me all these questions?"

"I tried to talk to you then," Luke parried. "And all I got was a dose of spacer philosophy. A eulogy on independence. Okay, if that’s how you want it, fine. I try not to press you, but you prefer talking to Lando. A real show of trust." The tightness in his throat warned Luke to stop right there.

"Trust," Han echoed as if repeating a difficult, alien word. "Just remember you get as good as you give. It’s not like _you_ trusted _me_ with each and every of your precious secrets, y’know."

The voluble sarcasm cut with precision this time, and Luke almost caught his breath. "Is that so?" In a voice no longer his own, strangely offkey.

"Remember the day you made your speech before the high ‘n mighty Council, after Endor? When you told ‘em about being a Jedi and your father and... and all that?"

Of course he remembered. The well-rehearsed speech that disclosed his descent, the day he’d faced the possibility of making himself an outlaw among friends who no longer recognized the Luke Skywalker they’d known. A final step he’d taken to seal off the past beyond redemption.

"Okay, so you made a public announcement," Han insisted, disrupting reminiscence. "But you could’ve told me first." He turned, to protect whatever showed on his face.

Absorbed into memory, Luke thought he could guess. Across the room, he’d met Han’s eyes and found the expectable ― the look of bridled anger and desolation that acknowledged the impact of change. A look that burned into him as Luke forced himself to finite acceptance.

_We’re not the same anymore. It’s over_.

"Look, I realize you found out that I wasn’t who you thought I was," he finally said, his tone flat. "But I never thought you’d turn away from me because of that."

"Goddamnit, I didn’t," Han countered, if less secure in his attack. "Why don’t you just listen to what I’m tryin’ to say? You left me in the dark like a bloody imbecile ― to stare ‘n gasp with the rest of them. You told Leia. You could’ve told me. But you didn’t."

"Not because I didn’t trust you."

"No?" Han shot back.

_Don’t you know?_ The force of serious doubt in Han’s voice landed hard and stung. Luke rose, as if the motion could stop reality from shifting around him. "No," he said tightly.

"Then why?" Han leaned back, arms crossed before his chest. His eyes showed a grief too distant to appease.

"Too much to say, too little to explain." Luke knew how that would sound. He exhaled cautiously. "I guess I’d just moved past talking. Look, I came away from Cloud City with little more than life and something less than sanity, and―" A clipping gesture undercut the words. He took one step forward, facing Han. "I was on the outside. I... cared about you, about Leia. How could I turn around and shout that it’s not fair?"

He stopped himself there and hauled in a deep breath. It was out, the sheer drop of finality right before him. And for a second Luke wished he could slip back into the redeeming detachment that had followed Bespin, when revelations and decisions had been forced on him at such a dizzying pace, they cauterized every other sentiment. A blessing of ambiguous consequence maybe, but a blessing still ― to let gentle anesthesia cradle the fragilities of his mind. Maybe that was how he’d blinded himself to the feeling that survived unchanged, still afraid to face inevitable rejection.

"Luke," Han started, and the intensity of his tone forced its way past every consideration. Suddenly, a silence that no longer protected any secret lingered between them.

Han averted his face. "We’re talking about months here. Didn’t I give you enough time?"

Anger vibrated in his voice, but the undertone of dejection reached Luke sooner than the words did and took his breath away.

"I couldn’t see that you did," he heard himself say in a voice that might just shatter.

Impossible. Some loose ends would never be tied up and time would not turn back on itself to humor him. But within a split second, the hard truths he’d accepted careened into emotional overload. Something inside him was beginning to unravel, spinning towards total confusion.

"I suppose you couldn’t," Han said, his gaze and voice strangely sober. "But I stayed on because of you, and I left for the same reason. Doesn’t make much sense, but then that’s true of the way I feel about you. So now you know."

Luke met his eyes across the distance of years, but time had sped up and outran the mind’s efforts to observe a logical progression. Thoughts scattered in a thousand directions, and he moved long before they could regroup, closing the distance. His hand closed around Han’s forearm and held on hard, gripping for balance or sensation. And the feel of tense muscle through the fabric moored him to an alien reality that lived only in the nerve.

"Han, you―" he started breathlessly, "you don’t know ― how much I’ve missed you..."

His hand lifted, settled against Han’s chest to find his own stumbling pulse mirrored there, a drumbeat echo on his skin, reflection of the waiting, an ache that never stopped ―

Hands came up and gripped Luke’s shoulders, held him off even as they hauled him closer. "And that’s why you let me leave? To make sure how you feel?"

Han’s guarded tone ricocheted back through him with a wild hurt, all the more intense after losing its cause.

"I _was_ sure," Luke brought out, "long before you left."

"Yeah? How would you know?"

"How does anyone?" Luke moved his hands up to Han’s neck, the firm clasp making the statement axiomatic for himself. "I _know_."

His pulse raced to compete with the Falcon’s engines that throbbed under the deck. Han’s arms went around him, trapping him in the blunt intensity of instinct. The impact was unexpected. As if his own claim to certainty proved itself with indefinite repercussions ― _I know I know I know_...

Luke held his breath, because by letting it out he would release a life lived on reservations, precautions and assumptions, and there was nothing yet to replace it, except the pressure of Han’s arms locked around his waist and the need in himself ― too vast, too immediate.

"Show me," Han said, but his eyes gave away doubt and tacit desperation in equal measure.

Warm lips closed the gap between one random thought and the next when they lowered to brush Luke’s mouth. The tentative caress caused a burst of static in his nerves that almost made Luke flinch. Without warning, his senses relived the wintry fires of Hoth ― the same expectancy, the same electrified readiness. Han’s mouth covered his own, gentle and searching. Searching for an answer they hadn’t quite found yet.

Feelings ran wild, each of them deepened by melancholy’s lenghtened shadows. Luke drew a long, unsteady breath, made himself hold back, made himself consider, but his mind had been wiped blank and knew only the hesitance in Han’s touch.

Years had passed.

It could not be true.

A small, reasoning part of himself tightened in anticipation, while the rest froze, sensing the collapse ahead.

Resilient suspicion smoldered in Han’s eyes together with a flash of heat when he released Luke. One step backward took him out of reach.

"Not like this," he said sharply. "It’s not gonna work, pal. I’ve lived with this a long time. No charity required."

"How can you say that?" Out of breath, Luke steadied himself against the cool solidity of the bulkhead, his skin still burning with the echoes of too intense sensations. "Han, this is... if you think this is easy for me―"

"I’m sure it isn’t."

A measuring stare framed him and reconfirmed the distance. Han pushed both hands into his pockets. "Let’s just forget about it ― like we should have, long ago."

"No ― Han, wait!" Protest caught in his throat. Luke swallowed against the tightness and felt the weight of wrong words that could tip this uneasy balance in another second, drive all those elusive truths into permanent silence. "We need to talk."

"We already have. I don’t see how talking’s gonna do any good now."

"If we can―"

Han stopped him by holding up a hand. "Don’t you see? We obviously can’t." He left the lounge in long, brusque strides, a stormcloud ready to burst at random.

Luke leaned his forehead against cool steel and struggled to ease his breath, desperate to fight his way out of the paradox. Reality had splintered into countless disconnected fragments, liberating the shadow core of loss his younger self had buried. He lifted his head to look out through the porthole and watched the twisting strands of light and darkness like the most fragile convergence of chances.

One chance in millions ― to bring back the past, to begin again ― spun from his reach, reverting to nil... because shock had hit him too hard to comprehend, believe, or react.

_So here it ends,_ Luke thought, numbed all the way through his soul. _Here. Now_. The view outside offered no anchorage. Outside the continuum, Here and Now did not exist, past and future collided, each effacing the other.

Losing himself to the play of light and color, Luke felt again the harsh pulse beating under his palm, the texture of Han’s mouth on his own, demanding a ransom of recollection. Begging forth a different reality he’d failed to recognize, unlimited opportunities that he’d missed ― as intangible as the glitters of hyperspace that spilled around him. As Luke watched, his circumspect reasoning of years slipped away and left only the raw need he’d refused to admit, blinding himself...

...to all he could have had.

Luke heard his own shallow breathing in the ship’s stillness. Time moved forward and back trying to catch its own tail and bite down on it, loose strands of starlight weaving outside, cajoling the night that claimed it would never turn into day.

_No,_ he said in silence, _I’m not letting go. Not again_.

His hands gathered into fists, he was sore with the older pain of excised hopes, and the one moment shared with Han still seemed to build to full momentum inside him.

One chance. A second to stay, or to leave, to declare a start or an end ― or to know that both were, inextricably, one?

Suspended on the edge of time, Luke knew if he let go now, he would also lose himself. From anguish and confusion unfolded the simple desire to touch and believe that it could be real.

He drew a deep breath when hesitant footfalls approached from the corridor as if in answer to an unspoken pledge. Luke straightened to the task of facing Han and the truth, giving himself a sense of direction in the middle of an emotional landslide. The steps faltered, and he felt Han’s presence like a tingle against the nape of his neck.

He forced himself not to turn, until the presence behind him warmed his skin from head to heel and hands clasped his shoulders.

"No," Han murmured, when Luke stirred to the touch. "Gimme just a minute..."

Luke dipped his head in a quick nod. Strong arms circled his waist, and Han bent his head until his chin rested on Luke’s shoulder and his breath brushed the side of Luke’s throat.

He looked at the wisps of white light outside, curling like exhaled breath in frosted air, and it brought back everything... love, kicking in with the very adolescent blend of hazy desires and anticipated disappointment. Stormy sentiments unfurling as he felt the slow rise and fall of Han’s chest against his back. And with the subtle sensations, with the recycled air he drew into his lungs, he seemed to be drawing a new reality to him and a painful longing so vast it couldn’t be part of himself. Absurdly, Luke felt like Han would vanish the moment he turned around.

_I love you,_ he said inside his thoughts, a fierce statement of the impossible. _I’ve loved you since that day or longer, and even then I didn’t know half of it, and that’s why I’ve failed you_.

The pressure of Han’s arms, the body-warmth molding around every sentiment were like something scavenged from an outlawed dream. It had been a long time since he’d last allowed the combined forces of need and memory to override the conviction that his desire circled a dead spot. A lost past. A cause as hopeless as trying to piece scattered atoms of oxygen back together after they’d been sucked into vacuum, and hope to end up with breathable air. Only when he could forget that, he could let himself dream.

Han unlocked the fingers he’d laced across Luke’s waist and stepped back.

Like the boy who’d filled Tatooine’s airy deserts with scraps of straining fantasy, Luke closed his eyes and turned.

"I’m still here," Han said. "Tell me what to do about this mess."

"Just... tell you?"

Vigilance lingered at the back of Han’s gaze when he looked up, and Luke wondered what it would take to break through the thick shielding of Corellian stubbornness, to break the deadlock of years and make Han believe, the very fragility of the moment like thin ice before him.

Han let a breath escape slowly. "We’re running into an impasse here, don’t you see? Somebody’ll have to give."

There was a sting of truth in the words that had not been intended, or recognized. _Give_. Hopeless odds were infinitely easier to deal with.

_I have nothing left to give._

_Only the terrible need, only the wanting that grows all the time_ ―

"I know. That’s what always held me back," Luke said, fumbling for words that would condense years. "I... made myself stand back, accept reality, because... I’ve been forced to learn I don’t really own my life, Han. I don’t have the right to make demands. And that way I guess I learned about making excuses."

"Excuses for not talking to me?"

"Worse. There was nothing to say."

Han gave him a look that reached past explanations, blunt and unrelenting, profound like the night outside. "As in, you made yourself forget?" His eyes did not leave Luke’s face. "Then I suppose you’re better at it than I am."

"I’m not, believe me." Luke’s hand came up to clasp Han’s wrist and demand him back close. "I couldn’t forget, and I couldn’t live with it either."

Confusion sank deeper into the hazel eyes. "You know ― back on Hoth... it felt like I’d lost you the moment we got started," Han said.

He wrapped an arm around Luke’s shoulders, and the gesture was enough to snap the remnants of control. Luke dug his fingers into the sinewy wrist, leaned into the embrace fighting for breath, aghast at the pain that pressed in on his lungs. The truth he owed, Luke thought, but it assailed him with a tremor powerful enough to unravel the tightly woven fabric of decisions, necessities, and experience. All he’d considered secure parts of himself, stripped away, exposed ―

"Hell, it hurts," he whispered, hating the weakness.

Han tightened the embrace.

It felt like learning to breathe again, with difficulty, holding each other the only alleviation.

"And I always thought I could rely on _you_ to figure things out," Han said at last, but his voice caught, falling short of the intended levity.

"Not this time," Luke answered, firming his tone. "I guess I just... needed you too much. Couldn’t face a no, couldn’t even face my own feelings."

Raising his head, he saw Han blink rapidly, and his throat constricted. "You don’t know how I wish I’d taken a closer look... just once." He lifted their clasped hands and laid Han’s palm against his cheek. "But when you left, all I could think was that you couldn’t put up with it ― with me, wanting so much more."

Han closed his eyes. "Damn," he muttered, sharp breath touching Luke’s temple as he bent his head. "Shows we’ve both been pretty dense, huh? All I saw was that you’d been shaken up bad enough already, no need for me to create extra trouble."

Luke shook his head. Strange, silent laughter rose in his chest as he surrendered into Han’s embrace ― all the waste of effort, to protect a shared secret from each other.

To allow for new lives built separately, built from the scraps left after a frenzy of change.

"I should’ve tried―" Han stopped himself, pulling Luke closer. "I love you, you know, but just don’t ask me why... well, hell ― I guess that’s the reason I could never say it."

No whisper of disbelief stirred the quiet this time. Behind closed lids, a velvet shadow cradled all the confused emotions, and Luke leaned up until their lips could meet in mutual promise not to question. Something washed away, and the firm pressure of Han’s mouth was all it took.

"I thought you’d never believe me," Han added when they let go.

"And I’m afraid you could’ve been right," Luke admitted soberly.

The resilient spark of humor returned to Han’s eyes at that. "Sure, go ahead, make me pay for all my sins." He slid a thumb across Luke’s mouth. "Maybe you’re just what I deserve."

"What do you mean... maybe?"

"Definitely," Han amended. "So, when do I get what’s mine?"

Luke’s face warmed, and he felt the heat rise even more when Han caught his shoulders and reeled him brusquely into another kiss. He welcomed the impassioned invasion of his mouth, immersed in surprised pleasure and a joyful loss of direction. With total authority, the kiss breathed love into the cold, the residue of Hoth’s obstinate winter inside him. Until nothing seemed impossible anymore.

Finally catching himself, Luke slid his tongue into Han’s mouth and tasted the dizzy breath he drew. Enough to send his pulse into a quicker rhythm, impulsive heat merging their bodies with the explicit force of reality. The lock of Han’s arms around him squeezed the last of breath from his lungs. Winded, Luke let his head fall back.

"Are we going?" Han murmured.

"Where?"

Mouth curling with amusement, Han pointed over his shoulder. "My cabin." He tried for a dangerous smile. "Unless you want it on the floor to embarrass Chewie."

"You think he can cope with us turning day into night?"

"Hey, I’m the captain of this ship. Means I can turn back time whenever I feel like it. I’ll even switch off the lights if you want."

"Don’t even think of it."

 

Brushing past Han, Luke walked towards the cabin door and turned, hand on the locking mechanism. His heart gave a sudden twist at the sight of Han, a curious ache brought back by the insignificant distance. And he needed to absorb that sight ― the tall frame and the dark eyes fixing him with exclusive decision, the porthole and its spread of incandescent lights on midnight black like Han’s shadow.

"What?" Han asked, moving up to his side.

Words came from nowhere and amazed him with sudden understanding. "The day breaks not," he quoted softly.

"You remember _that_?"

"Sure. I even looked that particular song up in the archives. Want me to quote the rest? The day breaks not..."

"Oh dear gods, have mercy," Han grumbled.

"...it is my heart, to think―"

"Shut up!" Han palmed the door’s lock and shoved Luke inside. "That proves nothing, except my habit of saying the wrong things at the wrong time."

"The right time," Luke corrected him tolerantly.

But when he turned to look around the cabin, there was an odd second of awe and delicious flagrancy ― to challenge the logic of irreversible time ― although in another moment, the physical shock of Han’s embrace cut all heady speculation short. And everything dropped back into proper place.

Han was in his arms, sprawling on the narrow bunk, the breath knocked from him at the impact of their bodies, a dazed glow in his eyes.

The instant they kissed again made it perfectly evident that shameless impatience would exact its dues. Luke teased his tongue into the warm mouth, his breath ragged already, volatile shivers concentrating in his lower back where strong hands rubbed and squeezed him. He probed deeper, turning the kiss into a claim that brought a harsh gasp from Han. Inside him, tight strings of anticipation were drawn tighter and began to vibrate.

"I don’t suppose we can get those damn clothes off," Han muttered on uneven breaths.

"Not now," Luke said, slipping his fingers inside Han’s shirt, content with the margin that move gave him.

He traced a shiver across Han’s chest to a budding nipple and settled his mouth against the side of his throat. The resonance of Han’s immediate reaction and the powerful grip that forced his hips up close against the hard bulge in Han’s pants made him bite down playfully.

Han gasped and clenched his teeth. "I guess I see your point," he brought out.

Arms wound around each other, they rolled, stretching out side by side, urgent kisses chasing one after the next. Wired to a power source dictating its own, unquestionable rhythm, a shock pulse strung them together in an infinite loop of echoes.

Everything the last time had been, and nothing like it at all.

Luke squeezed his eyes shut to blind himself against double vision ― past gained and presence lost.

"I know what you’re thinkin’." Han framed his face with surprisingly cool hands.

"Look at me..."

"We’re not the same."

"No." The word was blown against his mouth with quiet simplicity.

Luke bit down on his lip. Absurd, how the momentary stillness made his breath go harder ― and when Han’s mouth settled on his own, forcing that unsteady, painful breath from his lungs, it felt like deliverance.

Gripping Han’s shoulders, Luke pressed into him, joining all of his body to the silent communion. Something hot and dark inside him pushed outward with full concentration, pushed against his mind to connect with fear and exhilaration alike.

"I need you," he whispered, breaking the deadlock that had driven him inward. "Don’t leave me again..."

He kissed the hand that cradled his face and felt the tremor spread on his skin.  
Han’s mouth drew a moist path down his throat, skimmed the open collar to nestle between cloth and heated flesh. Rasping breath and gentle lips alternately caressing him, leaving him no choice at all ― and he’d never wanted one anyway.

Luke ran both his hands up the length of Han’s thighs, tracing delight in the stir of tension that his touch triggered. Rocking hips invited his caress, and he thrust his hands in between their locked groins, let his fingers meet over the hardness that strained against the worn fabric of Han’s pants. One deep sigh shivered across his chest, imploring him.

A million praises came to his mind, at the feel of strength and desire, the perfection of Han’s flesh and skin and motion ― but they were all sensation, all wordless urge to continue. Luke slid his fingers up and down the zippers, locked his thigh around Han’s to keep him still.

Han gave a low moan, and another that was bitten off as Luke pulled at the zipper and tugged downward, withheld breath clogging in his own throat.

"Hell ― I’ve wanted this so bad, I―" Words were lost in a rough gasp. Han buried his face at the junction of Luke’s neck and shoulder, crushing his mouth to damp skin.

Deep in the wave of pleasure, Luke gripped him. Throbbing pulse ran through his fingers and merged with his own heat. He pumped gently, encouraged the rhythm of Han’s hips rocking to meet his touch, explored the breathtaking delight of urgent responses. Hard flesh tightened even more to the pressure of his hand, sliding back and forth in his fist.

Luke felt the muscles in his back and legs draw tighter, felt the mirrored pleasure sweep into his own erection with stinging sweetness. Shared rhythm of ragged moans, climbing, faltering ― until Han rasped out a _no_ that was a _yes_ in truth and thrust hard, his fingers digging into Luke’s back. The tall body froze, trembled, and Luke fought a surge of dazzled pleasure as he watched his lover spill into his hand with a muffled sob and one final, desperate motion that ended in shudders as Han rolled over him and pressed him into the mattress.

Fast breaths whispered against his throat. "Han..."

He waited for the dark head to lift and expose a gaze utterly lost to love and desire, to him.

"So much for self-control," Han muttered with the lopsided hint of smile.

"Means we’re even."

"Not quite. Gimme just a minute to catch my breath."

"And then―?"

The warm mouth swept down on him, grazed his cheek and lips with playful promise. "Then I’ll make you feel what you’re doing to me."

Luke nodded breathlessly. He looked at Han and thought again how beautiful he was, and that beauty always touched him with an edge of terror. Anticipation throbbed in his groin, but he wanted to hold it all inside, keep it safe, live in the suspension between one moment and the next.

The slow minutes filled his mind with a final, easy truth.

"Luke?" Gentle fingers traced his hairline and combed through sweaty tangles.

Luke moved his lips to the triangle of soft skin under Han’s ear for breathy kisses and halting words. "I can’t explain, Han... but ― back then I couldn’t have loved you like I do now."

Han swallowed hard and rubbed his face against Luke’s hair.

"Don’t tell me," he whispered.

His hand made an awkward, aimless motion across Luke’s chest and clenched abruptly.

Luke wrapped his fingers around the fist and said nothing until Han raised his head. "Don’t wanna see me go to pieces, do you?"

"You wouldn’t."

"How do I know?"

"This is your life, Han, and you’re safe in it. Much safer than I’ll ever be."

The generous mouth curled when Han looked around the cabin as if suspicious of sudden change. Watching him, Luke smelled the frosty air of Hoth, the kerosene scent of emergency repairs and biting worklights, and Han’s body. The tanned face stubborn and gentle, withdrawn to the shadows of scattered recollection.

"It never felt like that," Han finally said. "Not until now."

His hand escaped the clasp of Luke’s fingers and slid down his belly, to rest on the swelling in his pants.

The light touch drew a leap of pulse, arrowing from his heart straight into his groin. Kick-started arousal tightened him, lifted his hips toward the easy caress.  
Han smiled. "Time for you, I guess."

His fingers moved lazily, and Luke stared into Han’s dark eyes with a mute anxiety of losing the moment too soon.

"What d’you want me to do, Luke?"

Breath whispered against his ear, stroking fingers outlined his need with strange delicacy. Luke shook his head, mind blank and senses full of Han to the point of senseless bliss.

"Guess that means I’ll have to find out by myself, huh?"

Han lowered his mouth against Luke’s chest, brushed the half-opened shirt aside while his free hand drifted ahead, parting the fasteners. Nipples tightened to the flick of Han’s tongue and fingertips, and the small, circling motions disrupted Luke’s shallow breath with coiling electricity.

Han didn’t give him any time to focus on the sensations, hands and mouth stirring shivers across the planes of bare skin with caresses that found their mark everywhere. Luke gasped at the playful touch of teeth raking a firy seam down his belly. Han’s mouth skimmed the waistband, jotting down kisses that marked the next line to be crossed. Hands peeled more cloth away, freed him to the breath of cooler air. Han palmed his erection, the gentle touch a promise of comfort, reassurance more than conquest.

Luke let his breath escape through clenched teeth. He knew Han was looking at him, eyes tracing the path of fingertips that drew throbbing heat into his hardness. He closed his eyes in something like a prayer, void of requests.

Thick hair fell softly against his skin like a shadow, and then a shockwave ran through his body, formed a tight arch of breathlessness when Han’s tongue traveled the length of him.

He was trembling, vanquished completely, he was going to fall over the edge in another second, swept into the warm, wide darkness of Han’s loving.

"Please ― no..." Luke gasped.

Han lifted his face for a quick smile. "I don’t think so."

Breathing heavily, Luke realized surrender was in his eyes already, sealed with Han’s name.

The next whispering tease of breath and lips flitted brightly across the edges of exposed nerves. Luke thought he would scream, but when Han lowered his head to engulf him in wetness and melting heat, every ounce of energy was tied up in tension heading for overload, and he writhed in the firm grip that trapped his hips against the mattress.

The gently sucking mouth conquered inches of him stroke by stroke. Hopelessly fascinated, Luke watched the dark head bob in a slow, seductive rhythm, poised on the edge and finally ready to fall, although Han kept him there all too easily.

"Han," he murmured again, soothing himself.

The rhythm picked up. Flushed and hot all over, losing his center, Luke twisted on the bed and dug his fingers into the body-warmed sheet. His mind was dragged down to where lips, teeth and tongue made their statement of power over him and placed all that power at his command with unconditional, shattering tenderness.

Moans were drawn from his throat in a fast succession, and he tried to escape the piercing heat, bucking upward, sliding in and out. Every move filled him with need and tore him loose, small twists of fear joined to delight. Skidding down the depth of it, he wanted Han around him and inside him, at the other end of the fall to catch whatever would be left of him.

Again, the full impact outblazed anticipation. The gentling hands pinned him with sudden, brusque force as Han sucked hard, summoned every bit of pleasure from his tense muscles, drew a fierce pulse from him and absorbed his being into the shattering waves of orgasm.

He followed after it and surged, part of his soul tearing loose to join with Han as he pushed up, the cry he gave a distant echo of deeper anguish and desperate triumph.

Time and place spun out of comprehension. Shaking, Luke felt the ebb of desire open him to change, to love closing around him in the shelter of Han’s arms.

"Carry on like that and you’re going to kill me," he breathed out.

"I’ll be careful," Han murmured.

There was a sting of tears he hadn’t cried years ago and wouldn’t cry now. Luke remembered a cool morning in the archives, the recorded voice that intoned sentimental verses with an odd sobriety: _The day breaks not, it is my heart_...

He surprised Han with a shaky laugh and said "nothing ― it’s nothing" into his lover’s questioning eyes. "Only that we’re here."

"After all this time." Regret surfaced in Han’s lowered voice, acute in the aftermath of blissful abandon. "It could’ve been so much easier."

Luke shook his head. "Let it go." He stretched cautiously, tracing the depth of contentment. "Gods ― I feel so good, it’s like... I can’t think anymore. And we don’t have to."

"Higher justice, it must be." Han sighed. "I never really tried, y’know, I gave up trying to sort things out and ran. Never thought I’d hear _you_ tell me to shut my brains down."

"So perhaps I’ve learned from you."

"Is that right?" Han settled his head against Luke’s shoulder, a warm weight against his slowing breath. His hand stole into Luke’s hair, giving him lazy caresses while thoughts ran ahead. "I don’t know... I suppose it’s all right. Unless you take over my part and start running."

"Why should I?"

"Because it gets too much."

"Was that your reason?"

"I don’t know. Maybe." Han let his palm glide down Luke’s chest to balance volatile sentiments with physical reality. "And maybe I just hate being afraid."

Luke felt unspoken questions in Han’s drifting touch, like a shadow curling at the edges of his mind. The sullen presence of fear they’d invited along, feeding on a multitude of incalculable futures. In between constantly changing odds, there was now too much to lose.

... _to think that you and I must part_. A web of twilight, tightening.

_Time never asks what’s become of us,_ he remembered from somewhere. Seconds beaten out with the pulse under Han’s skin, counting down to victory or defeat, all the way down to zero and the blunt fact of mortality.

Luke trapped the wandering hand against his chest. "You’re thinking about what’s next," he suggested, giving the amorphous shadow its most immediate coordinates. "About Mandalore?"

"Never liked the idea."

"I’ll manage."

Head coming up briskly, Han snapped himself back into brash confidence. "Hey, if you expect me to just drop you off and be on my way, you’ve got the wrong guy, pal."

"It’s not... your cause anymore."

"My cause!" Han snorted. "Get real for a change! There’s only one cause I support, and that’s my life. The life I want to share with you. Pure egoism, see?"

"Make that mutual egoism."

"Glad to hear you say that." A crooked grin chased the twilight from Han’s gaze. "Besides," he added, "I’ve always found it easier to believe in you than the goddamn Rebellion, the New Republic, or payday."

"I’m flattered," Luke murmured and turned his head to rest his forehead against Han’s chest.

_We move on. What else?_

He listened to the hum of power channeling through the Falcon’s engines, called on the sight of eruptive brilliance outside, the solid configuration of planets dissolving in a shimmer already past before it began, starting anew and slipping through meshes of twilight.

Han’s breath brushed against his face.

"Luke..." The dark hazel eyes demanded an eternity, no matter the odds.

His heart stumbled. "Yes," he said.

*** End ***

**Author's Note:**

> First Published in: CONCUPISCENCE 5, 1997
> 
> Disclaimer: George Lucas created these wonderful characters and turned them loose. The joy of writing them is all the profit I could wish for.


End file.
